


the golden floor

by aosc



Category: Bleach
Genre: M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-19
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-10-08 00:59:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10374255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aosc/pseuds/aosc
Summary: “Well,” Ichigo says, and clasps a palm firmly over Ishida’s upper arm. “We’re gonna make a run for it.”





	1. Chapter 1

* * *

 

“Kurosaki - “ Ishida hesitates, a lone second’s worth of momentum gaining, building -

 

Ichigo breathes out, shuddering, and steps up between the two of them. Closes the gap. He’s so innately tired; fatigue seeping through his muscles and tendons, weighing in his marrow. And it’s quiet, as quiet as can be, what with where they are, and what’s happened here, he supposes. It smells thickly of blood and skin. Singed earth. The sharp tang of kidō. The vibrating reishi surrounding Ishida’s heilig bogen.

 

The patch of skin just beneath Ishida’s left eye is pink with newly grafted tissue. There is a splat of blood on his chin. His jaw is clenched tight. “Ichigo,” he says, as though attempting to cajole him into - well, Ichigo’s never a hundred percent sure where Ishida’s concerned.

 

“Ishida,” Ichigo interrupts, between a sigh and a beckon, “Shut up. We’re done, so, can’t you just shut up already?”

 

Ishida frowns. “That can’t possibly be it,” he says.

 

“What can’t be?” Ichigo’s avoided feeling his own body out for a long time. The less you acknowledge the pain, the better, whilst traversing a battlefield. But in the aftermath of shock, and blood loss, and epinephrine - there are torn muscles, broken bones, a long strip of sluggishly coagulating incision along the inner of his left thigh. Mother _fucker_. He grimaces.

 

“You - “ Ishida says, but cuts himself off. He purses his lips thinly. “Everything that’s happened.”

 

Ichigo hums. “Yeah, I guess a lot’s happened,” he says.

 

The looming shape of the Silbern is crumbling above them, large chunks of its walls gradually disintegrating where it’s situated, astray in the air. It’s going to take a while, Urahara had said, _this very dimension will need time to fully grasp what has been done to it_. Around them, the ground has bowed down into a crater, splashed with the remnants of the Soul King’s powers, Yhwach’s remains. Tufts of grass and wet earth, powdered stone. The reishi Ishida gathers in his palms at his whim, Ichigo thinks, smells acrid. Weaponized. “You going to keep doing that?”

 

Ishida startles. The crackle of power at his fingertips fizzes out. “I didn’t realize,” he says, almost piqued.

 

“Figures,” Ichigo snorts. “You so used to putting us in the ground now, huh?”

 

“That’s not - “ Ishida protests.

 

“Save it,” Ichigo snaps. “If you’d just shut _up_ , and quit making everything about you all the fucking time, then maybe I could, for a second, pretend that this lunatic’s dead. That the war’s over. That we can begin to move on soon.” He tastes blood, not sure if it’s due to a rooted up tooth, or the weird ache in his gut. Punctuated stomach or a few loose teeth, what’s the difference? Ichigo lifts his sword arm - incidentally the least cut up one, and scratches three fingers through the mess that is his hair. Curled at the ends with blood and matter, sticking in wierd angles over a pepper of scalp wounds. “Aren’t you fed up with this too, Ishida?”

 

“My feelings on the subject don’t particularly matter,” Ishida says. But he looks aside, gaze cast down, when Ichigo turns to him. “What’s done is done.”

 

“Yeah,” Ichigo agrees, “What’s done is done. So, are you going to put it behind you and quit being such a gloomy bastard?”

 

“Gloomy?” repeats Ishida with distaste, “Kurosaki - people have died. Entire parts of the city’s perished, I think _gloomy_ is the least - “

 

“Well, you’re a pretty shitty covert agent, Ishida, but you still stood on the wrong side of the killing and the destruction to be entitled to feel sorry for all of the people who’s lost somebody here.”

 

“Then why are you here?” Ishida snaps. “I’m no novice, Kurosaki; I’m able to feel out reiryoku better than most. I know there’s a branch of the 2nd division on its way here. I’m guessing it’s the Detention Unit. They’re hardly coming for you.” He pulls a shuddering breath, knuckles working; it’s the least put together Ichigo has ever seen him. “Go back to your cause, Ichigo. After all - you were on the _right_ side.”

 

The overcast sky is clearing, somewhat. Ichigo, who’s inept at feeling anything out over the fat blanket of his own reiatsu, also knows that they’re approaching. The Detention Unit makes sense. Ishida’s a traitor to the cause; he had, after all, been considered a neutral ally. Soul Society will see it as a defection as much as they had would it have been an actual enlisted soldier.

 

“Right or wrong side; the only one who’s ever been married to his goddamn cause, Ishida, has been you.”

 

Ichigo steps close to Ishida. He’s got one ailing foot; a torn Achilles tendon. Ishida has a fracture of some sort in his left shin. They’re not going to make it very far by foot. “You can manipulate reishi pretty good, can’t you?”

 

Ishida’s breath hitches. He remains very, very still. “What of it?”

 

“Well,” Ichigo says, and clasps a palm firmly over Ishida’s upper arm. He grins, unsure of whether it’s in lunacy because he’s fucking lost it now, or simply because everything always spins sideways so far he’s unable to pretend nor care anymore. “We’re gonna make a run for it. Figuratively, anyway, given how beat up we both are. And I’ve got zero clue of how to do Hirenkyaku. So until this whole mess is sorted, we’re able to sneak out by our own devices, or Quincy-shunpō the fuck out of the way, you’re going to have to get the marching band of assassins off our backs with what we have in front of us.”

 

Ishida startles. “Kurosaki – !” he exclaims. “I’m not going to run from this! I came in knowing the stakes. I’m prepared to accept whatever punishment they see fit to give me.”

 

“Oh, quit talking shit, Ishida. You’re the proclaimed heir to that madman; how well d’you think that’s going to play with the Central 46?” Ichigo sneers. “The trial’s gonna be a courtesy, if anything. Bullshit formality. The people on their way here? They’ve already sentenced you to death. Or Muken. Whichever’ll be the worst form of punishment.”

 

“I’ve reconciled myself with that fate,” Ishida says, stubbornly. “I was prepared for death, or for this, in the unlikely event the outcome be this.”

 

Ichigo can feel, beneath the rough cotton texture of Ishida’s uniform, the warmth of his skin, the tight wrap and chord of muscle. How fucking _alive_ Ishida is, despite it all; how they’ve all made it out of death’s maws by the fucking skin of their teeth. How they’d _won_ Ishida back; Ichigo grits his teeth. The soft rumble of an entire squad approaching doesn’t go him amiss.

 

“Listen, you suicidal moron,” he grits out. He shoves Ishida in the wake of himself when he takes three successive steps backwards. “I’m not _wasting_ you. Alright? Not now. _Not_ when we’ve made it out. I’m not letting some sick, twisted form of self-punishment make you think that you deserve to be put to death like some kind of animal.”

 

Ishida’s eyes widen behind the fractured shine of his glasses. Ichigo bunches his fingers in Ishida’s uniform, the white contrasting with his ruined knuckles. “We don’t have time to argue this anyway. Get us out of here, and you can lament about how you deserve to die or whatever – _later_.”

 

“How do you know they won't simply see through this? Kyōraku-san is a perceptive man - and you were explicitly told about the abilities of the Wandenreich prior to the battle.”

 

Ichigo presses a _tch_ between his teeth. “I don't. I don't freakin' know anything. I just know that for you to be able to survive until tomorrow, we have to try.”

 

There is a split second of confusion – the loom of ruins that precedes the real Soul Society make them partially hidden to anyone approaching from there. Ishida twists half out of Ichigo’s grip, hands coming up to grasp at Ichigo’s waist. They look at each other. Ichigo nods. The air crackles with ozone, tasting metallic and too clean, too purified –

 

“If you collapse on me now, Kurosaki, I will _leave_ you here,” Ishida snaps.

 

The world, in greens, blues, earthy hues – swallows them whole.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, i've been thinking about this practically since it was revealed that ishida'd (fake)defected. and i have about 4 different versions of ishida vs soul society law halfway written. this is going to be the shortest. and sappiest. and also the most unplanned, seeing as i'm publishing it now, rather than finishing it up and then publishing. 
> 
> chapter count is loosely decided, but may come to change. this first one will have been the shortest by margin, so prepare for longer as we go.


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

What strikes him first, is how dissimilar the dimensions really look, despite being right on top of each other. Though, he’s not sure what he expected; a bleached out version of Soul Society, the same ornaments, buildings, forests, just adverse in color?

 

The closest surroundings taper out in thick pine forests. The sun is drawn pale in the sky, and when he breathes in – he promptly switches from lulled state of false security and into high strung, fight or die-survival mode. He forces the air – heady, thick and as though trying to swallow down an armful of cotton – down, down, almost holding it there rather than absorbing it to have it stay in his body.

 

Ishida, at his side, shoots him a quizzical look. “There is no metaphysical difference to how the air is compressed here versus in the Soul King’s palace,” he says.

 

Ichigo flaps a hand at him. He still feels as though he needs to chew the air down. “Shut up,” he mumbles, “Took a while t’ get used to, up there too. ‘Sides, ‘m not all – Quincy. Don’t think I’m very welcome here.”

 

Ishida hums. “That’s a good point,” he says, “No one who is not purely Quincy – Echt or Gemischt, has ever stepped foot in this dimension.”

 

“Right…”

 

“Although I can’t imagine you should have much trouble adapting, you are half Kurosaki, after all. Do you recall how to draw on Blut Vene?”

 

Ichigo, leaning on his knees to ease his breathing somewhat, looks sideways in Ishida’s direction. “No. Why would I do that? It was an instinctual slip, or something. I have no idea how to do it.”

 

“ _’An instinctual slip’_... Please refrain from referring to your Quincy abilities as though they’re a tragic accident, Kurosaki.”

 

“Well, aren’t they?” Ichigo mutters. He shutters his eyes, attempts to breathe and sink into that state precariously on the verge of meditation, where he eventually finds his way to his inner world. He figures that he’ll need to start looking somewhere, and that’s probably a good bet.

 

“It’s not like that,” comes Ishida’s disembodied voice from somewhere to his right. He sounds mildly exasperated. “Come here.”

 

“Oi,” Ichigo protests, as Ishida grasps at the bend of his elbow. “D’you know how hard it is to find a tranquil spot of mind when you can’t even breathe?”

 

“You don’t need to _meditate_ , Kurosaki,” says Ishida. “It’s pure reishi manipulation. It’s not – it’s not inside of you. Stop trying too hard, you brute.”

 

Ichigo cracks an eye open. The needling light sticks. He frowns. “No?”

 

Ishida parrots, “No,” and rolls his eyes. “I wasn’t telling you to do Blut Vene. It’s a combat technique, which our current situation hardly merits. You need to manipulate the air into becoming more breathable.”

 

“Huh. Well, that makes sense, I guess…” He halts, looks around. “How do I do that?”

 

Ishida, half torn robes, still bloodied and with bruised eyes beneath his glasses, looks at him as though he’s the largest idiot he’s ever met by far. “I know your parents taught you sorely little about your own heritage, but given the sheer talent nature decided to imbue you with, I’m continually astonished by how stupid you can be.”

 

“Less insulting, more telling me what to do.”

 

Ishida quirks an eyebrow. “There’s a first time for everything, apparently,” he says, tartly. “Just – imagine how you gather reishi beneath your feet for whilst moving in shunpō. Even if you unconsciously do it, you should be able to visualize it with relative ease. You’re not a completely hopeless case.”

 

“Oh, really?” Ichigo shoots back.

 

“According to Yoruichi-san,” Ishida shrugs.

 

Ichigo snorts. He does see it, though, when closing his eyes – his reiatsu is usually a fizz of sprawling yellow. He builds from that, small stepping platforms beneath the soles of his feet. The foundation is slightly unstable. He can’t really control its finer points, and has taught himself to move with its irregularities. He stands on a squall, rushing forth.

 

“Imagine it in your hands. You’ll want to grasp for the air, beginning with the tips of your fingers. It has to flow through you, and your steadiest points of entrance comes through the nerves in your hands.”

 

Ishida’s voice is steady, soothing. Ichigo sinks into it, the matte black surface of a lake. He works up – through his toes, bubbling in his legs, pooling in his knees, reiatsu frothing in his thighs and up, through his belly. The skim of yellow. He’s creeping slowly, but more steadily than he’d imagined, towards where his point of origin should be.

 

It rushes through his arms, breaking from his shoulders in a soft trickle, eventually opening up until it’s a flood. Ichigo involuntarily flexes his fingers, wanting to grab onto – anything. A steadying point. A stray of reiryoku, starch in color.

 

“And now?” he prompts. He can feel it, swaying with the pressure it puts on his nerves, carbonated blood in all of his veins.

 

“You haven’t noticed, have you?” says Ishida.

 

“Noticed what?” replies Ichigo, piqued. He frowns, but remains half trapped between his mind and his body, unwilling to let go of the feeling of control he’s managed to attain.

 

Ishida snorts. “Your senses are truly unrefined, Kurosaki. You have the physical sensitivity of an elephant. Your breathing’s become radically lighter, has it not?”

 

Ichigo startles into opening his eyes. “You’re right,” he mutters, and, unthinkingly, inhales a grateful mouthful of air.

 

“No – “ Ishida begins, just as Ichigo allows for the control of the rush to slacken. The tightly packed air coils around him again, thick as a noose snaring his throat. He gags, stuttering forward.

 

Ishida reaches out, whip quick, and claws Ichigo’s right hand clasped into his own. His breathing evens out again, quickly coming as it went just half a second’s worth of time before. He coughs, a little wetly, and sucks after oxygen yet again.

 

“That’s a fundamental problem of yours,” Ishida snaps, “Just because you’ve done something once doesn’t mean it will come to you naturally after that. _Don’t_ let go of me.”

 

“Fine. I won’t,” Ichigo grumbles. Ishida’s fingers are warm and dry against his own.

 

He slowly straightens from the slight forward tilt he’s pitched into. The glade that they’ve found themselves in is bright with midday. Slithering through the trees is a slightly overgrown path. Tramples of hoof tracks lead out west. “You know where we are?”

 

Ishida shakes his head. “I’ve never been here. I visited Silbern while still in this dimension, obviously, but I’ve not been outside its walls.”

 

“So we’re just gonna trek?”

 

“Should you have a better idea, now is the time to voice it.” Ishida bristles, and pulls at him, intending to go forward. Ichigo, grateful for the ease of breathing, halts after him. Immediately, he realizes that he can’t. He bites down on a stringent of curses; the swelling on his heel is pushing on his shoe, and as it is, he can’t push off with his right foot at all. It’s as though it hangs limp and detached from the remainder of his body, strung together only by the connection of the bones in his foot.

 

Ishida stops, sensitive to the shift of Ichigo’s body, the slight tug on his hand, and turns halfway towards him. “You’re injured,” he states.

 

“So are you,” Ichigo replies, “It’s fine.”

 

Ishida eyes him critically, as he tends to do – the shift of light in his glasses partially obscures one eye, and he squints down the length of Ichigo. “Haschwalth left me with a parting gift. I sustained minimal damage after he’d absorbed my wounds. I’m better off than you are. You’ve not been healed since – “ he pauses, “Too long, anyway, I would guess.”

 

Ichigo rolls his eyes. “Too fucking long, yeah. It’s my Achilles. I probably won’t be able to move for shit; think it’s torn straight off.”

 

Ishida nods shortly. “Then there is no point in moving out of here. You’ll need another means of transportation until I’ve managed to reverse some of the damage.”

 

“You gonna magic up a horse or something?” Ichigo snarks. Given that he’s now been forced to acknowledge the actual damage he’s suffered to his heel, most other things which physically hurt will rear their ugly heads soon enough. He puts pressure with the ball of his hand to splay his left knee outwards. The skin on his thigh stretches thinly. Blood crusts off of him, flaking from the gap in his shihakushō. He sighs, deep in his gut.

 

Ishida is quiet. Studies Ichigo from behind his glasses. “I’m sorry, Kurosaki,” he says suddenly. “I didn’t realize you were that injured. I should have.” He pushes at Ichigo from where they’re still clasped, palm in palm, backwards. “Can you sit down?”

 

“Psh, quit acting like you care. It almost sounds believable at this point.”

 

“I don’t – “

 

Ichigo waves at him with his free hand. “Shut up. And don’t let go of me. The humiliation in choking on the air whilst I try to sit down for you to treat my poor, injured self; I’ll kill myself twice over.”

 

He sits down, none too gently, seeing as he can’t place any weight at all on his right foot, and as soon as he does on the left, the skin taught over the wound on his thigh creaks, sluggish blood blubbering forth. Ishida follows, gently, looking like the patron saint of Quincy wholesomeness, as much as goes with scars in peach crossing across his face, and torn robes.

 

“You’re no healer,” Ichigo points out.

 

“An astute, though useless observation,” replies Ishida, “I’m going to let go of you. Try to breathe deeply.”

 

It’s somewhat easier to accept that it’s going to be difficult breathing, now that he knows what it’s like. Ishida’s fingers slip from his own, and Ichigo focuses on the flow of reishi outside of his own body, attempts to steer it towards the points in his fingertips that Ishida was talking about. It’s all static to him now; concentration ruptured, lungs snagging on the thick concentration of particles. He blows air through his nose, and instead shifts his focus to minimizing his breathing. To strangle the very need for it. He used it during training with the Zero Squad. The air in the Soul King’s palace was, after all, just as shitty as this one. And he eventually adapted to its thickness, sticky like hot asphalt.

 

He looks up to a soft _woosh_ , and sees Ishida use a quick three-step Hirenkyoku to ascend above the reach of the forest. His tattered cape flaps tarp like behind him. “You see anything?” calls Ichigo, strained but audible.

 

Ishida doesn’t reply at first. He shields a palm above his eyes, distantly. Slowly, he twists in the air in all four cardinal directions. Ishida’s thoroughness often drives Ichigo up the wall, too meticulous and detail oriented to be efficient in the hit, run, ask later-situations they’ve often been forced into.

 

“There’s most likely a swamp area to the northwest, and some sort of low building not far from here, also in the same direction,” says Ishida, as he makes a graceful landing in front of Ichigo, not too long after. “The canopy looked purposefully torn down. It’s the most logical conclusion to draw.”

 

Ichigo nods slowly. “Well, let’s go then. A house beats a forest mat.”

 

“Let’s go?” Ishida repeats.

 

Ichigo hoists himself up to standing. He carefully puts his right foot down. Though he’s unable to move it, he is able to divide his weight somewhat equally between his legs. He nods. “Err, yeah. We gotta, right?”

 

“I’m either horrified at the prospect of you believing I’ll carry you there, or irked that you’d adventure your future ability to walk out of sheer stubbornness.” Ishida pushes at his glasses, furthering them up the bridge of his nose. “You’re not physically able to “get going” in your current state.”

 

Ichigo meets his gaze in mild horror. “No worries,” he says, slowly, “No carrying will be done. No damsels are nearby. Jeez, Ishida, quit being such a ‘round the clock freak. As for my mobility; I’m touched you care. A few hours ago, I was gutted by your royal predecessor, and subsequently patched up. A tendon rupture’s a walk in the park, by comparison. You’ll have to support me, but we’ll be fine.”

 

“If I’ll have to support you, then perhaps it will not so much be a ‘ _walk’_ ,” replies Ishida. His face is schooled into impasse.

 

At first, Ichigo doesn’t really get it. When he does, he takes a moment to process the sheer _unlikelihood_ of Ishida Uryū cracking a joke. He decides he sort of can’t. He’s not sure what just occurred – actually occurred. “I’m not sure I can even dignify that with a response.” He looks Ishida up and down. “Are you feeling okay?”

 

“Har har, Kurosaki,” Ishida deadpans. “The crowning effort of hilarity definitely goes to you.”

 

“Well, at least I’m known to make a joke every once in a while. I’m really starting to fear for your sanity over here. Being on the run from an oligarchy’s not for everyone, after all.”

 

“… You’re really not, you know,” says Ishida critically. “You’re always on the far end of everyone else’s character jokes… But no matter – this may not be Soul Society, but we can’t stay for hours on end in a foreign world, camping out in a forest glade. We’ll be sitting ducks for anyone to shoot at.”

 

Ichigo looks around. There’ve been no disturbances whatsoever since they first arrived. Now that he thinks about it – their surroundings are a little too quiet. He’s a shitty sensor on a good day, but he can’t hear anything; the flap of a bird flock’s bypassing glide, a cricket of insects. The inevitable noises a forest makes. There’s nothing. Nothing outside of what they emit themselves.

 

He looks at Ishida. “Figuratively speaking,” he says, “Right…”

 

Ishida returns the glance. “Right,” he repeats. “We’ll need to move on.” He moves around Ichigo, and, careful like a medical practitioner’s son, ducks his body forward to be able to fit beneath the span of Ichigo’s half mast arm. He takes care to fit himself against Ichigo’s body, and gestures for him to relieve some of his weight onto his own shoulders.

 

They traverse the forest along the slightly stray, overgrown path that is hinted at on the ground. Ishida isn’t particularly talkative, and Ichigo often accepts that, often more appreciates it, as it’s come to be. What’s more is this: Ichigo knows the acrid sting of Ishida’s heilig pfeil, the purified reishi burrowing its way into the severance between his tricep and bicep. He knows the hard set of his jaw, and his harrowed eyes, too darkly set against the white sheaf stitch of the Sternritter uniform. But, here, in the belly of the Wandenreich dimension, Ishida is still Ishida; erect shoulders, snappish voice, unwillingly self-sacrificial for his comrades.

 

Ichigo stares up into the canopy of low hanging pine branches, as they trek across the forest. “It’s really – medieval,” he says, feeling for the right words.

 

“It is,” Ishida replies. “So is Soul Society, though.”

 

“Are you really going to defend it?”

 

Ishida frowns. “Don’t be stupid, Kurosaki,” he says, “Though, it’d certainly be in my nature to do so. The same goes for you. And also, it’s a “world”; it’s not “at fault” for any conflicts which may occur in it or outside of it.”

 

“Or which may have occurred,” says Ichigo.

 

“Or which may have occurred,” Ishida agrees. “It makes no sense to blame an entire world for the actions of one small group.”

 

Ichigo inclines his head. “Fair enough, I suppose,” he says, “We’re not blaming Hueco Mundo for any of Aizen’s crap, and that’s still a shitty ass place.”

 

Ishida snorts, quietly. He refrains from replying. Instead, he briefly stops to adjust himself beneath Ichigo’s weight, and to steer them slightly eastbound, deviating from the trampled up path of several horses’ hoofs.

 

The forest at the height of summer, or whatever season’s equivalent it currently is in this world, in the shade of leaning, looming pine branches, is cool without being cold. The filtering through of the sun makes for a dry sort of warmth in spots. Ichigo listens for Ishida’s calm breathing. He thinks of the surrealism in actively thinking about the fact that just hours before, they’d stood on the precipice of the world ending. He thinks of the death, destruction and battle. Here, it’s so far from anything else, despite the fact that it’s closer to the source of their enemy’s powers than anything else.

 

“I can hear how hard you’re thinking,” says Ishida, “Please don’t exert yourself.”

 

“Don’t be such an asshole all the time,” Ichigo complains, “It’s almost like you don’t have anything to apologize for.”

 

Ishida half startles, and Ichigo realizes – satisfactory or not, he falls somewhere in the midst, that he’s hit a nerve badly swerving and clipping it half heartedly. He’s not going to apologize, though.

 

“I won’t apologize to you,” Ishida murmurs, “Because an apology won’t make anything undone. It won’t make any amends. Given what’s happened, isn’t it more insulting of me to think that an apology will ever be sufficient enough?”

 

Ichigo looks sideways at him. There’s something raw peeking up in Ishida’s voice, as though now is a good time to lay it all bare. Then again, it’s not as though another time is a “better one”. Ishida’s jaw is clenched. A blue vein is brushing the surface beneath his skin in his neck. “Well,” Ichigo says, “Isn’t it better than nothing?”

 

“So that’s what you want? An “I’m sorry”?” Ishida halts so suddenly that Ichigo, stuttering along like he’s eighty, ailing and somebody just severed his puppet strings, almost tumbles forward without support to hold him steady. He unthinkingly pushes off the ground with nothing but the pure force of his own reiatsu, forcing a pulse down into the forest mat so as to attempt to regain his balance.

 

It works better than expected. Or, he corrects: it actually works. A gather of reishi tumbles from the balls of his hands, and repels him back upright. He turns to Ishida, who acknowledges what just happened with only a slight widening of eyes. Which, anyway, remain that way, something crowding his expression that is between a trapped, cornered animal and his own defiantly wounded pride.

 

“Well then,” comes Ishida’s clipped voice, “I’m sorry. I’m _so_ sorry. Is that sufficient for you? Is that _enough_ for you?”

 

“Fuck you,” Ichigo snaps, “Fuck you and your haughty, sorry ass. You can’t admit defeat for shit, can you? You can’t even be properly sorry about the fact that your revenge plan sucked, and you stood by, twiddling your fucking thumbs next to a madman who made Aizen look like a stroll in the damn park. You knew what Yhwach was, and you decided to hitch your wagon to His Majesty’s Raving Lunatic anyway. And now you’re suddenly too proud to give a freakin’ apology? Give me a break, _Uryū_. Your wounded pride’s worth shit, nobody cares about why you did what you did. Have the damn decency to kneel, say _I’m sorry_ like you damn well mean it, and then move the hell on. Everyone else’ll be trying to do that, don’t disrespect that _too_.”

 

He ceases talking because he runs out of expletives to spit. He runs out of energy, suddenly depleted, and can’t be angry anymore –

 

Ishida looks at him, lips pressed together in a pale, silent line. His cheeks are splotched with red. His knuckles are bloodless with strain. “If that’s what you think,” is all he says.

 

Ichigo snorts a mirthless, ugly laugh. “Well freaking said, you royal asshole. That _is_ what I really think.”

 

“It was my mother.” Ishida says it quietly, syllables almost mashed together, as though he’s rushing through an admission he rather wouldn’t be making. “During the Auswählen – she died.”

 

“I know,” Ichigo says, “Yhwach, or Haschwalth, or someone told me. I don’t really remember. Think it was supposed to throw me for a loop. And I’m sorry, Ishida. I really am. But all of us fought a common enemy, you know?”

 

“No, Kurosaki; you actually have no idea – “

 

“So what if I don’t?” Ichigo cuts in, “Do you know anything about how my mom died?” And even talking about her hurts – cuts like a charring knife at his bones, hollowing something out in them. “You’re not the only one; in fact, we could’ve basically been the flip sides to each other, two equally sorry assholes in this. Did you know that?”

 

Ishida remains silent, Ichigo suspects because this _is_ news to him, the do it all yourself-asshat. “My mom – she was strong. She – “ he grapples for words, unused to talking about it, the enunciations bending and worming in his mouth, “On the day of the Auswählen, or whatever it’s called, she lost her powers. I’m not really any good at this Quincy business, but I gathered that on that day – “

 

“Echt Quincy lost their powers due to his Majesty’s complete awakening,” supplies Ishida, “And Gemischt Quincy fell into illness, or, depending on the level of their capabilities, died instantly.”

 

Ichigo nods. “Yeah. So my mom went up against Grand Fisher without knowing that she was powerless. She couldn’t do anything.” He pauses, and meets Ishida’s gaze. “You weren’t _alone_ in this, you big idiot.”

 

“It’s not the same,” Ishida says, stubbornly. “If Masaki-san hadn’t put herself in that situation, she simply would’ve had her powers stripped. My mother – “

 

“It _is_ the same thing,” Ichigo interrupts. “Quit trying to justify yourself. It’s the same. The cause and the outcome were the same, and the fight was the same. How does it even differentiate anymore?”

 

“I had it all planned out!” Ishida exclaims.

 

“You didn’t,” Ichigo snaps. “Your plan was _horseshit_. Yhwach and Haschwalth knew; how is that a plan?”

 

“How tactically naïve you are, Kurosaki,” says Ishida, “His Majesty recruited me despite my motifs. It was perfect. Because they knew that I held no loyalty to the cause, I could get close to the heart of it. Don’t you get it?”

 

“No, I actually don’t,” Ichigo says. “And I never will, so it doesn’t really matter how you explain it. You saw everything that happened; how could it have worked? In which version of events could you have killed him?”

 

This does silence Ishida. He opens his mouth as though he wants to protest – and then shuts it again. Remains silent.

 

Ichigo doesn’t get things like that; working thrice in a roundabout to get to the actual enemy when it’s as simple as this: you get to the enemy. You strike him down. How Urahara, Shinji, Gin, and now Ishida, operate, he doesn’t get at all. And it’s worked out for none of them. Ergo, that way of doing things suck.

 

The air has become slightly colder, and the pinpricks of sun between tree branches have dissipated. Ichigo breathes deeply between his teeth. Realizes how much energy this sucks from him. Especially since, at the far end of it, he’ll never hate Ishida for doing anything. There’s not a bone in his body that’ll ever be able to hold any contempt for Ishida, the idiot.

 

“It’s too late to do anything to affect my choices now,” says Ishida, after a lengthy pause. “We can argue our war time ideologies and different strategical ways of thinking without end. It’s not going to matter now. What has come to pass – it’s all done.”

 

Ichigo sighs, deep in his stomach. “Wrong. This shit isn’t over ‘till the fat lady sings. That’s the issue with this. You’re a fugitive. That’s sort of why we’re here, in the smack ass middle of Nowhere Forest in Quincy land.”

 

Ishida’s troubled brow becomes more pronounced. “This is very much due to you. Like I’ve said, I’m prepared to accept any and all sentences the law pronounces appropriate.”

 

“ _Tche_. You’re a dumbass. There’s appropriate punishment for you – ceaselessly being a dick. That’s what sucks, you know; I’m not about to give up on you and and let you go off an’ die. I can’t do that.”

 

“Kurosaki – “

 

“You always address me like I’m the latin name of a horrible disease you’re about to contract an’ drop dead from. Quit it. Look, I don’t care, let’s just get to that house before it goes completely dark and we couldn’t anymore find our own asses without a map and a flashlight.”

 

It takes them a while to start up again. Ishida reluctantly reaches for Ichigo like he’s now fragile to the touch, enough to break at first contact. Ichigo shares more of his weight out of sheer irritation, but says nothing. Somehow, the air appears a little lighter. The tension between them that he’s only barely noticed before, has been shaved down to its barest minimum. They’re not through; he’s not dumb enough to think so. But somewhat, they’re a little closer to drawing equal than they’d been.

  
 

 *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> strapping in for the ride! nothing's particularly decided on and nothing is pre-written. a note on the worldbuilding: kubo's been playing loose and fast with his own canon, as we all know. quincy lore doesn't quite connect on a few points, so i'll take liberties where it's needed. in the manga chapters depicting bazz-b and haschwalth's origins the world they live in is dubbed the "lichtreich" by yhwach, and looks roughly like a medieval european equivalent i think it's supposed to be based on. the silbern, however, is basically a flakey ice castle suspended in mid-air in the "realm" known as the wandenreich, where quincies have milled about doing fuck all for a thousand years in the wait for the shinigami to become lazy and old. i'm connecting the two here, because it makes no sense not to. liberties, and so on. the concept of transcending the realms is also hazy at best, but at the beginning of the invasion, the sternritter basically came and went as they pleased, so i'm thinking that that's something the quincy are able to do.
> 
> i'm sorry, this was the longest author's note i've ever written. if you see anything out of place, let me know. if you like something, let me know. i'm hoping to update this cirka once a week, depending a little on the irl workload i'll have.


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

Orihime is washing her forearms, her elbows and wrists, in a hastily constructed basin in the far end of the medical barracks, a cluster of temporary set-ups at the lip of the wrecked city. Blood is difficult to wash out, so when she raises her arms above the sink again, her skin remains tinged orange and scrubbed a little raw. Elbow grazing gloves are not luxuries the Fourth can afford at this moment, Kiyone-san had said, and doused Orihime with more disinfectant, one hand still trapped in the incision they’d cut along a man’s left kidney.

 

It’s not that Santen Kesshun cannot, technically, reverse the damage that’s been dealt to most of the division’s foot soldiers. It’s that she’s so exhausted – depleted of energy, of the edge of fright for her comrades and friends that’s kept her going for so long, the determination that nothing less than victory will ensure survival for all of them, that she can’t call for more than fragments of its powers now. A seventh seat of the Eight had been laid before her, arm separated from a serrated shoulder completely, and all she’d managed to do was the closing of the wound, of reversing the damage to the shoulder, to the base layer of tissue in the muscle. Orihime’d sunk to her knees at the side of the man, breath uneven, head swimming.

 

“Orihime-san,” Isane-san had said, “Please, do not exert yourself. You’ve done enough.”

 

Orihime had shook her head. “Please,” she said. “I can still be of help. Please don’t ask me to sit this out, Isane-san.”

 

Isane, hair matted with blood and shihakushō torn in places, frowned. “Are you in any way familiar with medical practices? First aid?”

 

Orihime nodded. Set her jaw. “I can still be of help,” she repeated.

 

Isane had shown her the medical barracks. “It’s not ideal,” she said of the floorless tents, upon which sloppily chopped stacks of pinewood in perfunctory rows served as hospital beds, topped by stained, tufty mattresses and thin sheets. “But neither is war. You’ll be tending to the soldiers brought here along with the 2nd Relief Squad. Kiyone will be here shortly, and will serve as your immediate superior.” Isane looked at her, eyes crowded by too little sleep and too much stress, eyebrows taught still in concern. “At any time you wish to stop, you may do so. We’re innately grateful for your assistance, Orihime-san. It is an act performed selflessly; a mindset that we have often come to associate with you and your friends. It won’t go unnoticed, as it has perhaps so been in the past.”

 

Orihime flushed. “It’s not – “ she started, but Isane shook her head. “It is,” the captain interjected. “Now, please, if we could forego trivial arguments.”

 

The flap of tarp serving as entrance and exit to the barrack, snapped aside. “Kotetsu-taichō, we have runners incoming with codes red and yellow! Permission to prepare a space for performing emergency surgery requested, Captain!”

 

Isane looked at Orihime briefly. “Are you ready?” she asked, but left no room for Orihime to reply, as she swept out of the room along with Iemura-san, the Third Seat, her Captain’s haori tied hastily above her hips.

 

Orihime scrubs at her wrists a little harder. The water is murky, spluttering out of the tap. She’s long since grown used to seeing – and treating, grisly wounds – intestines spilling out of men’s stomachs, crushed bones and punctured lungs, cut throats, entire torsos separated cleanly in twos and threes. She’s come to look at medical personnel with a sort of practical reverence, and knows that when – not if – they go back home, Ishida-kun, Kurosaki-kun, Sado-kun, herself; this is what she wants to do.

 

Despite this, she’s a little light headed as she twists off the water and reaches for the bottle of disinfectant balancing on the edge of the basin. She’s inhaling through her nose, beneath which Kiyone had rubbed menthol salve to help with the smells, but which doesn’t manage to help when she accidentally gulps down a large mouth of metallic-tinged air, blood and death permeating the warmth inside of the barracks.

 

She mentally chastises herself: keep it together, Orihime. If you can’t do that much you really won’t be able to help these people.

 

When she’s shook most of the residue water and alcohol dripping from her arms, she pulls the flap of tarp separating the back room from the common area and steps through it. It’s gradually quieting, having gone from a cacophony of anguished and stressed outcries to a static murmur. She can’t anymore hear soldiers who moan loudly in pain, nor can she hear those who beg for death.

 

The Fourth are bled thin on equipment, as are most other divisions, supply storages razed and burned by the enemy. However, a runner had come with news of unearthing the underground supply bunkers a few hours ago, and once a squadron had finally come with a slough of necessities, Orihime had helped distribute morphine and sedatives among those worst off.

 

Kiyone looks up and towards Orihime as she walks across the room. Past the beds looking more like funeral pyres in the waiting.

 

“Orihime-chan,” she smiles, “How are you feeling?”

 

“Kiyone-san! I’m fine.” Orihime scratches two knuckles down her collar, and forces forth a smile, “No need to worry about me!”

 

Kiyone replies, “Oh, I won’t. Not without reason to, anyway,” as her smile slowly dissipates, and makes room for something more somber. She indicates the far length of the tent with a slow circle of her hand. “There are more squadrons on their way here. Will you be fine assisting me, as you’ve been doing now?”

 

“Of course,” Orihime says. “I’ll help as long as you think I can still do some good, I’ll be here.”

 

Kiyone nods. “Good. That’s – very good,” she says. “We’re very grateful. Well then, you may start preparing th – “

 

Her head snaps quickly to the left and she snaps her jaw shut, just as the tarp is pulled aside.

 

Two masked, darkly dressed soldiers of what Orihime recognizes as the Onmitsukidō step through the entrance. A third member follows them.

 

Orihime sees, in the flash before the tarp slapping softly shut behind them, at least five or six more of the same party remaining outside. All of them are equally clad, all of them of similar build and equipped with the same pouches and holsters in their belts. The same, short katana just before their hip.

 

“Kotetsu-fukutaichō,” they greet Kiyone simultaneously.

 

Kiyone is quiet, but eventually nods a mute greeting back.

 

“Member of the original Ryoka Five, Inoue Orihime-san,” they say, without delay, without waiting for permission.

 

Orihime nods back, mirroring Kiyone with caution.

 

Kiyone, who asks, voice a little hard, “What’s going on? Captain Suì-Fēng is, along with the remaining captains and vice-captains, in the First Division Captain Quarters. Vice-Captain Ōmaeda should be with her. There’s no one here who the Detention Unit might have business with.”

 

The three of the Detention Unit, Orihime notes, to file away, drop to their knees, turned in a split vision line between Kiyone and Orihime. “All of what you have said is indeed true, Vice-Captain. We apologize. This is a sensitive time. Our mission, however, is also of the sensitive nature. Particularly, the time-sensitive.”

 

Kiyone scowls. She says nothing in response.

 

The woman, judging by the lilting lightness of tone, though nothing in her appearance betrays her, who had come at the very back of the party, turns to Orihime. She stands again, and steps forth, to form the tip of a triangular formation.

 

“Inoue Orihime-san,” she says, “As a member of the Ryoka Five, as well as a comrade, of Kurosaki Ichigo-san, and formerly also of the defective Ishida Uryū, we are here on the orders of our Squad Command. At this time, you are not to be treated as a suspect, but merely as an affiliation. For this reason, we ask you to come with us now, willingly.”

 

Orihime notes the omission of Sado-kun, as well as Yoruichi-san, however much she was really included in their Ryoka group of the first time. _Kurosaki-kun, Ishida-kun_ , she thinks, and also thinks that suddenly, the air just became so much more difficult to breathe, her lungs that much wound tighter in her chest.

 

“Suspect?” she asks quietly. “Who is a suspect?”

 

“I will ask you once again,” Kiyone intercepts her, “ _Soldier_. What’s going on?”

 

Though it’s impossible for Orihime to tell, due to the masking they all wear, she feels as though the soldier in question chooses to ignore any comment Kiyone makes.

 

“We sincerely advise that you come with us, Inoue-san,” says the woman instead. “As I previously stated, you will not be coming with us as a suspect, but merely as an affiliated party. At this time, it is crucial that we may speak with you. No harm will come to you, should you decline to come, but know that this may impact the course of the investigation.”

 

“What investigation?” Kiyone snaps, eyes wide in poorly masked stress, stance defensively tilted towards Orihime.

 

“We are not at liberty to discuss specifics, Vice Captain. I apologize for this. The Captains, as well as yourself and those of your rank, will be duly informed whenever it is deemed beneficial to the case.”

 

Orihime’s thoughts spin, breaking off of one another and forming new ones at a breakneck speed she can barely understand herself. But in the midst of it, an eyelet in a hurricane, she chastises herself: Stay calm. Whatever it is, it’s for Kurosaki-kun. For Ishida-kun. Stay calm.

 

“I’ll come,” she forces out. “If it’s – I’ll come.”

 

Kiyone opens her mouth, Orihime thinks she’s about to protest. She shakes her head. “Please don’t, Kiyone-san. It’s fine.”

 

“Orihime-chan – !“ Kiyone exclaims. “You have no obligation – “

 

Orihime – breathes in deeply, suckers at the air, and forces forth a wobbly smile. She can’t stop to wonder at its quality, nor at how close she is to bite through the thin skin on the inside of her bottom lip. “It’s okay. It’s for my friends, so I have to go – don’t I?”

 

The soldiers who’d remained kneeling behind the woman abruptly stand. They retain their formation.

 

The woman at the front nods a short affirmation at Orihime. “We’re grateful for your cooperation, Inoue-san. Please head outside. From there, we will lead you.”

 

*

 

Ishida had predicted the terrain fairly correctly, to Ichigo’s displeasure. They slough through a long stretch of mire, green and brown and wet, painstakingly continuing forward despite the fact that both of them are pushing at the brink of what they’re capable of.

 

“Wasn’t the house supposed to be level with this?” Ichigo says. He surveys the swamp mat, clawing for his ankles, porous ground suctioning at his feet.

 

Ishida wipes at his upper lip with the one of his hands that does not support Ichigo around the waist. He pushes at his glasses, sliding down the bridge of his nose with perspiration. “I didn’t say that,” he says. “I said that most likely, there is some sort of building in the same direction. It’s impossible to tell exact distances in unfamiliar terrain.”

 

“Tom- _ato_ , tom- _ahto_ ,” Ichigo mutters, “Whatever. You think it’s far?”

 

“Kurosaki,” Ishida replies, irritably, “How would I ‘think’ anything? I just told you it’s quite impossible to measure distance when you’re – “

 

“Ishida,” Ichigo interjects, “Don’t make science outta everything. I asked you a simple question. Do you _think_ it’s far?”

 

Ishida bristles. Then he appears to catch a hold of himself, and inhales noisily through his nose. “Unless we come upon it soon, we’ll have to stop for the time being.”

 

Ishida is, incidentally, brighter than anything in their vicinity. The dark of night has blanketed their surroundings gradually, and now – it’s difficult to scour their surroundings as it is, but now it’s nearing the impossible. The high gloss white of Ishida’s uniform stands starchily in contrast to – everything. Ichigo briefly recalls being called a sitting duck by the guy wearing the most obvious look at me I’m a target-cloak ever, but refrains from saying anything.

 

“We’ll stop here,” says Ishida, after another long trek past trees and thickets they’ve seen a million times before, and through poorly lit clearings they’ve surely stopped to rest and readjust in before. Ichigo would have liked to clock it, but knows that it would’ve been impossible to get right. An hour could be a minute could be a month, in his way of telling time.

 

Ishida gently handles Ichigo to lean against the wiry trunk of a looming tree. He slides down it carefully, catching the blunt of his own weight on the flats of his palms as he comes down to sit. He grimaces, stretching his left leg out in front of him. The muscles in his thigh and in his shin protest at being disproportionately strained with his unevenly distributed weight.

 

Ishida drops to rest at the balls of his feet just to Ichigo’s right, not immediately opposing him, but not allowing a potentially hostile intrusion to catch them both with their backs facing in the same direction either. They’ve learned a thing or to, being on the opposing sides for some time or no.

 

Ichigo strains to see into the depth of the forest behind Ishida. “We making camp?” he asks.

 

“I was thinking of going ahead to see how far we still have to go,” Ishida replies.

 

Ichigo nods. The back of his head hits the meat of the trunk with a soft _thunk_. “It would be nice to know how far I’m gonna have to jump one legged still through this shrubbery.”

 

Ishida snorts, quietly. “’Shrubbery’, Kurosaki?” he says, looking up at Ichigo through his wet fringe, through his glasses, in Ishida’s personal brand of sharp amusement.

 

“We just made it through a _swamp_ ,” Ichigo argues, “Any denser and it’ll be a jungle we’re cutting through. Leave my wording alone, Class Nerd Rank #1.”

 

“You made the top 30 as well,” Ishida points out.

 

Class rankings. Karate nationals. Round kicking a couple of punks knocking over a flask bottling a single tulip in front of a memorial. A dead child’s memorial. Her ghost thanking him, opalescent and pinkly bloodied hovering at his side. They were fifteen, and normal kids. Well, Ishida was never normal, but as close to it as they got, what with seeing the dead, and dealing with crazy ass fathers, and stuff.

 

“Yeah, I guess I did,” Ichigo replies, “Those were the days, huh.”

 

Ishida clears his throat. He refutes a reply. “Given the radical drop in temperature we’ve experienced, it would be unwise to sleep here. The ideal course of action would be to find anything to take refuge in for the night.”

 

“Yeah,” Ichigo agrees. He flips his hand at the trees ahead of them. “So go. Why’re you still here? Hesitant at going alone?”

 

At first, Ishida looks as though he’s not going to say anything, and that he’s not ‘hesitant’, Kurosaki, you heathen, what makes you think that? But then he opens his mouth, and shuts it again. He purses his lips thinly, and looks at Ichigo.

 

“I’m not leaving you defenseless,” he says, finally.

 

Ichigo frowns. “I’m not _defenseless_ , Ishida,” he replies, a certain distaste in his tone, “I’ve told you, I’m no damsel you need to save.”

 

“Please refrain from projecting your fragile masculinity onto me, Kurosaki,” replies Ishida drily, “You know no damsels, a term which is, in itself, regressive and patriarchal in nature. I’m not saying that you’re in need of saving, I’m saying that you – in your current state of affairs, will be left quite at odds when I go.”

 

“And why is that?” Ichigo says, eyes slit, scowling.

 

Ishida raises an eyebrow. “You are incapacitated and can’t move without aid. You’re in a foreign world, in a scenery which leaves you vulnerable to stealth attacks, should there be an enemy out there actively plotting an ambush. You suffer from quite severe blood loss, a possibly severe concussion, and will be at the risk of both hypothermia, should we stay here, and developing sepsis, should the incision on your thigh not be looked at soon. I’m your first and last line of defense at best, should anything happen.” He pauses, and looks at Ichigo meaningfully, “Now, tell me how me leaving you doesn’t, effectively, render you defenseless.”

 

Ichigo glares. “Tell me,” he says, enunciating slowly, “How this makes you anything more than my yapping walking stick.”

 

Ishida halts mid-saying something, and snaps his jaw shut. For a moment, they glower at each other, begetting the present for childishly regressing a few years, a hundred battles and a few wars.

 

“Do you want me to leave?” asks Ishida, at last, the hint at past actions collapsing, a deck of cards folding in on itself.

 

“I want to find that house,” replies Ichigo. He shutters his eyes, once more leaning back against the stretch of the tree. He listens for Ishida’s breathing. For the rustle of his clothing. The tightening of his gloves when he knots a fist.

 

“That wasn’t what I asked.” Ishida’s voice has mellowed out, grown into something quiet. It tapers off of his tongue, energy wilting, dissipating as soon as it at first came.

 

“I know,” Ichigo says. Mostly because there’s a large ass gap to bridge between that and anything else, and it’s not anything he’s able to do right now.

 

Ishida’s footsteps, barely audible, are already far through the trees when Ichigo opens his eyes again, now, rather to the incepting glare of the moon, and the rustle of a bare wind.

 

He thinks of – going back, and finding everything in Soul Society in ruin. Of the people who’re right now working tirelessly for gathering all of the pieces of the aftermath of war together, and patching them up to a somewhat workable infrastructure. The city’s collapsed, the soldier ranks are thin, the medical personnel are, mostly, dead. The captaincy is depleted, wounded, comatose. The government’s wiped out since the last conflict. The Soul King is dead.

 

The Soul King is dead, is stuck jangling in his head, lights a torch on his musings and makes him halt the proverbial train before it leaves to the next chain of thoughts. The Soul King is dead, which means that, effectively, Soul Society should be no more.

 

Ichigo looks skywards, sees the smatter of stars peek out behind a shroud of cloud, the moon farther back on the sky, almost too small to be visible. It’s quiet, as it’s been since they arrived, unassuming.

 

Ichigo’s no scholar, particularly not on Soul Society; his area has safely begun and ended in protecting it. Everything he knows, he attributes to listening with half an ear to Urahara, or either of the Captains whenever they’ve ended up in metaphysical arguments. He’s not going to say that he understands the finer points, but he’s always gotten the gist: Soul King maintains the balance, remove the Soul King and the balance will collapse. If the balance collapses, so does the entirety of the dimension.

 

“Tche,” he mutters, to himself, “Guess we took the bad guys out for nothing.”

 

It hasn’t really occurred to him until now, but that is true, isn’t it? Yhwach, for all intents and purposes, had become the Soul King upon the real deal kicking it. Good thing or no, someone would’ve had to assume that position after him, too. He doesn’t know if anyone knows how that’s to be done, though. He’s pretty sure they destroyed it all. Took no prisoners. Mimihagi, Yhwach, the Soul King itself – nothing’s supposed to be left.

 

Ukitake – comes to mind next. Suddenly, Ichigo’s lungs feel constricted, as though someone’s tied them up with rope and pulled until they’re squashed together, unable to expand. _Goddamnit_ , he thinks, and concentrates on the wayward stars above the canopy, closes his eyes and actively imagines himself breathing, deeply, sucking at the air, exhaling. So many good people have been _wasted_ in this conflict of fucking _madmen_ , for nothing but a war of ideologies and lofty concepts of gods. It’s sickening, and he’s unable to imagine the fact that so many could have died for nothing, for the world to keel over anyway in the absence of this God no one’s ever seen nor revered. It’s a fucking _joke_.

 

“ – _eathe_ , Kurosaki. Look at me.”

 

Ishida’s voice filters through his own blood rushing thick and heady in his ears, smattering like hail on the insides of his ears. Ichigo swipes at his eyes hard enough for the insides of his eyelids to become red with pressure, rakes three nails down the side of his neck to connect to any sort of feeling that can snap him out of this –

 

He’s unsure of where it begins and where it ends. Only that when he opens his eyes again, among the pangs of stars and the lightness of head, the frantic, meaty thunk of his pulse reverberating through his entire upper body, Ishida’s harsh lines and cut mouth comes swimmingly into his line of sight. At the side of his neck, Ishida’s palm is enclosing his fingers, cool and smooth.

 

“Ichigo,” Ishida says, with all the measured calm of a professional, or at least someone who is very used to calming people in the midst of blood and ruin, “Focus on me.”

 

It subsides, eventually. When Ichigo can finally breathe out without feeling as though the texture of his lungs will shrink and eventually evaporate into nothing, he blinks some wetness out of his eyes harshly, and leans as far as he can into the trunk of the tree.

 

“Did you find it?” he asks. His voice feels coarse and far away.

 

Ishida frowns, still concerned, obvious as though he were saying it. “It’s quite far,” he replies.

 

“Define ‘far’.”

 

“Far enough for the two of us, at our injured pace, to risk an entire night to unfamiliar terrain. I’m not sure we should go.”

 

Ichigo squints at him through the darkness. “That’s not what you said earlier,” he points out.

 

Ishida shakes his head. “I’m amending my earlier statement. If I’m right, this is quite the medieval society. Trekking through these woods – which become denser as we go, might I add, could subject us to hunters mistaking us for a pack of roaming prey. And, given the poor light, there might be pre-set traps we may not be able to see.”

 

Ichigo considers it. Ishida makes a lot of sense, which isn’t exactly unusual, except for when he’s not at all making sense. It happens every once in a while. He slowly nods. “So,” he says, “Staying put it is.”

 

“Dawn shouldn’t be long,” replies Ishida. Ichigo absently notes the firm pressure of his hand remaining on Ichigo’s neck. “In the meantime, try to rest. It could do wonders for your injury. The high density reishi should already be mending it, and rest, spiritual and physical, will help it along.”

 

Ichigo hums. “’M not weak, despite – “ he indicates, “That. What just happened. Whatever.”

 

Ishida’s eyes, dark and darker so now, consider him. He’s quiet for some time. Then – “I’m well aware. Now, please. It’ll make my life easier, as well. You’re not a person of light statue, you know. Effectively carrying you around is not a pastime I’m very fond of.”

 

He releases the hold he has on Ichigo’s hand, and rises, fluid, to his full length. He steps back, back towards the trees. Above them, the moon has become blanketed by a thicket of clouds, the light shut out, the forest inky and deep behind him.

 

*


End file.
